“Fuck.”
“What is it?” Jake asked.
“Medic!” Gallegos screamed again, trying to make his voice heard across the distance. “Hold on, sir. We got you.”
He could see the sergeant’s shoulders moving, doing something behind him, but Jake couldn’t feel him doing anything. “I can’t… What is it?”
“Exit wound. Don’t worry, sir.”
Soon, he was rolled back onto his back. The sky was very blue. It had started out as such a foggy morning, but the sun had burned everything off and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It reminded him of when he was a kid, outdoors, laying on the ground and staring up at the sky. He liked to play a game and make animal shapes out of the clouds. Too bad there weren’t any clouds today.
The sound of boots running up brought him out of his revery and back to the moment. He didn’t feel like he’d been shot. Wasn’t he supposed to feel terrible or something? He was cold, and his wrist was incredibly painful, but that was about it.
He could hear hushed voices, but couldn’t understand what they said. Someone rolled him onto his side again and then back down. Specialist Mitchell, the platoon’s only remaining medic after Weir stayed back in Kansas, came into view.
“Sir, you’ve been hit in your back,” the medic said. “Can you feel this?”
“Feel what?” He honestly had no idea what the kid was talking about.
“Okay. I’m gonna give you a shot. It will help with your pain.”
Jake nodded. “I’m not really in a lot of pain. My wrist hurts.”
Mitchell reappeared and said, “You’re gonna feel a slight stick and a burn.”
He waited for the aforementioned stick and burn, but felt nothing. That was interesting. “Shoot me straight,” Jake mumbled. “What happened?”
“Um,” Mitchell was in the process of tearing open a QuikClot bandage. “I think it might be your spinal cord, sir.”
“What?”
“The bullet entered your abdomen below your belly button and exited your back. There’s a pretty big exit wound back there, but I can’t tell how much damage is done. You’ll need surgery.”
Jake laughed bitterly. “Surgery? Who the hell is gonna do that?”
“I will, sir. We’ll get you someplace safe and—”
The medic attempted to move him, sending shockwaves of pain up his back. Jake screamed out in agony. He may not have been able to feel anything below his pelvis, but everything above it was still firing on all cylinders. “Okay, okay,” Jake gasped. “Just leave me be for a minute. I need some time.”
“Move up!”
Jake tried to tilt his head to see what was going on with the platoon, but he couldn’t see anything from his position. “What’s happening?” His teeth were chattering. He felt like an idiot.
“Uh…” the medic disappeared from his line of sight for a moment, rewarding Jake with a view of the clear blue sky once more. Then it was ruined by the reappearance of Mitchell’s face. “The guys are moving up to the house. They’re at the front door.”
There were a few more rounds fired, followed by some far off shouting. Jake was unclear as to how long everything took. Time seemed to be both dragging by and speeding faster than he could possibly imagine.
The analytical part of his brain told him that he was dying. He had a gaping wound in his back that needed surgery and there was nothing that anyone could do about it. There weren’t any doctors left. There wasn’t any way to get a blood transfusion. They didn’t have the necessary medications for sedation or to fight infection. Jake was fucked. He’d tried to do the right thing by his men and he was dead because of it.
And then, he suddenly felt at peace and he clung to that thought. He’d done the right thing by his men. He held that thought in the forefront of his mind. His men knew that he’d do anything for them, including giving his life for them. He’d trained his whole life to be a US Army platoon leader and he’d accomplished that goal. He could go to the afterlife knowing that he’d done the right thing.
He closed his eyes and let himself slip into the welcoming blackness.
27
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
MARCH 7TH
Grady crept down the stairs. He could hear several voices of gang members over the din of bullets coming from outside. They were scared. He wrinkled his nose. Scared shitless apparently.
The foul odor of feces and metallic scent of blood increased as he stepped one foot onto the main floor. He examined the scene carefully. He was in a narrow house, probably a townhome by the look of it. Less than ten feet away on the living room floor, two bodies lay in puddles of their own blood, one face down, the other curled into the fetal position. Broken glass scattered the floor where the platoon’s bullets had poured into the home. To his right, the voices continued.
Wait… he told himself as he cocked his head to listen. It was one voice. Praying. He turned toward the sound.
Old floor joists creaked under his feet as he crept along the hardwood. If they were even halfway listening, they’d know that somebody was coming toward them.
“Rico? Rico, is that you?” a voice called immediately before a head peeked around the corner of the wall separating the dining room and kitchen area from the front of the house. “Jefferson?”
Grady stabbed outward into the wide eyes of the gangbanger. The curtain rod’s jagged edge sank deep into the man’s cheek, easily penetrating the soft skin there. The guy screamed incoherently, falling backward into the dining room.
The fall pulled the wooden
